The Temptation (The Medieval Knights Series) (33 page)

"I thank you," he said softly.

She smiled and ducked her head against the look in his eyes. Such tenderness she seldom saw. It did not help her now to see it. She had no ready weapons to defeat tenderness.

"What else must I learn?" she asked.

"Are you eager, then, for lessons?" he said, grinning comically.

She knew he played with her, yet the game had snagged her and she could not turn from it or him. He was a rare man to so work a woman to his will.

"I was only curious."

“Then your curiosity shall be sated. As shall I. As shall you," he said, his smile fading like a dwindling fire extinguished by a cold wind.

"Sated?" she said, taking a step away from him. It was not a word she liked.

"Sated, yet do not fear," he said. "'Tis only another lesson. There is nothing in this chamber to harm you."

He was wrong. He was in the chamber. He could harm her, hurt her, tear holes in her that God Himself could not unmake.

"What is the lesson?" she asked.

"Learn the color of my skin," he said.

"My lord?"

"My lady?" he mocked.

"Your skin is white. There. The lesson is learned."

"Is it? White, you say? White like milk? White like soft churned butter? White like bleached linen? White like—"

"White like the sand at low tide," she said almost against her will.

"Ah, and yours is the golden white of flour as it rises in the heat of the day. Hot white, that is what you are, and yet I know that your skin is not hot, but only warm and smooth like butter or cream or—"

"I understand you," she interrupted.

"Do you?" he said, and his voice was low and hoarse, his look intense.

"Aye, my lord. I put you in mind of food."

Hugh laughed, and she smiled with him. "You have said it better than you know. When I am with you, Elsbeth, I am ever hungry and you are the banquet on which I long to feast."

Nay, that was not good. Such words were all against her purpose. She would be no man's meal nor sate any man's appetites.

"Warkham's larder is full, my lord. Sate your appetites there."

Hugh took a step toward her, his humor flown, all playing behind them. "Do not even hope for such an escape, little wife. All my desires shall be met in you."

"That is not possible, my lord. My blood—"

"Your blood will not stop me, Elsbeth. It is time for us to fulfill the vows we took before God. I must make you mine. I must find a way into you."

"There is no way into me," she said coldly.

"Ah, you speak your wish, but you do not speak what is true. I can find my way into you. And I can even tell you how to satisfy me. Your blood is no barrier to that."

Images filled her head, shadowy and disjointed. Dreams of terror from the darkest of nights closed about her like an instrument of torment. Panic filled her throat like thick smoke, and her chest closed against the invasion of his words. She could not breathe and began to cough against the pressure on her throat. She could not seem to get any air into her otherwise.

"My lord, I am not well."

"You are well enough," he said.

"I cannot get my breath."

"Then take mine," he said as he took her in his arms and kissed her. She began to choke into his mouth, turning her head from him, frantic for air and space. He released her with a frown, studying her in the dim light.

"Your pardon. I cannot—" she said.

"You can," he said. "You are bound by fear. Needless fear. I will not harm you. I only want to—"

"To what? To take my body? To use me to meet your desires? To sate yourself on me?" she asked, her panic still fresh and new upon her.

She threw at him the most vile charges she could. The taste of the words was bitter on her tongue as she accused him of what she knew he was guilty of. This was wrong, all out of joint. She did not want him. He could not make her want him. He could not make her have him.

"Elsbeth, there is nothing amiss in those words. I am your husband. You are my wife. It is as God designed. We are to meet each other's needs, sate each other's desires. This was the vow we took before God, and, before God, we shall accomplish it."

"I cannot," she said. "It is not in me to do this thing. Can you not see that? I am not fit for this life. I cannot do this!"

"You can. I will see that all is done by God's holy will."

Her anger rose up at his arrogance. He would not use God against her. "He is my God as well as yours, and He has set before you a blood barrier that it is forbidden to cross. You must wait. You know this is so. To do otherwise is to sin. Would you force me to that? Would you?"

She could feel tears itching behind her eyes and had no thought as to why such an entreaty should make her cry. She spoke only the truth. There was no need for tears. Hugh was a godly knight; he would not plunge them into sin. She could trust God for that. Could she not?

The tears escaped from behind her eyes and slid down her face. She wiped them away, signs of her weakness, and faced the man who had taken her life into his keeping.

"I must have you, Elsbeth," he said.

"At any cost? For any price?" she said, swallowing hard against her tears.

She had heard the echo of those words before and she had cried then, too. Yet she could not remember more; all was lost in mist and shadow. Happily lost in the darkest corners of forgotten memory. She turned from those shadows.

He considered her, his eyes soft and shimmering green in the shadowy darkness of the chamber. He was as bright as a beacon on a stormy night, shining gold and warm in a cold, dark world. Yet in darkness was safety; she did not need the light he cast upon her. She needed him not at all.

With a low voice, rough in its intensity, he answered her. "Aye. At any cost."

"Nay! You must not sin! You must not cast me into sin!"

Had she said those words before, in some long-ago time? She did not know, but they rang within her, stirring old fears and dark terrors.

"I must take you, Elsbeth. You must be mine in truth, your body pierced by mine; even if your blood covers me, I must have you. Let us do what penance we must for this tomorrow. For now, I must have you."

"For now, you must," she said, rubbing away her offending and demeaning tears. "Aye, for now. What a man wants, he must have, even if it be only for now. But what of tomorrow? What of me?"

"What of you?" he asked as he lifted off his tunic, revealing the width of his chest and the muscled length of his arms. "You are my wife."

"For now," she said sharply. "That can change if you only release me, Hugh. I do not want to be a wife."

"I will not release you," he said on a soft growl.

He stood before her in his braes, the firelight turning his skin and hair to molten gold. She did not care how he looked. She could not let him touch her. He must never do that. She had other plans for her life, a life untouched by any man, even a golden husband.

"You married me and gave me no thought; my plans for myself are nothing to you. Am I supposed to let you ride me hard, taking your pleasure at your will and whim? What of my needs? What of me?"

"You are my wife," he said, stripping off his braes in one smooth motion. “That is who you are and who you will remain. All else is in God's hands. All else is for tomorrow. Now you are mine. I will not give you up, not even to your dreams."

"I am my own," she said, staring into his eyes, refusing to look at his nakedness and the power of his form. "For now and for always, I am my own," she said, her voice ending on a crack of humiliating emotion.

"God says you are not. Will you fight Him, Elsbeth? Will you question His will, for has He not brought us together in the divine perfection of His will? Is He not working out His plan for your life? Will you doubt the very omnipotence and omniscience of God?"

"You will not turn this carnality into theology," she shouted. "You will not turn the achieving of your will into divine obedience and the seeking of my will into abject sin. You will not rob me of my faith and my devotion by a twisting of words. Lucifer did the same in the Garden. I will not play Eve for you."

"How have I turned my words?" he said, his anger a pulse of raw flame. He came near her, laying his hands hard upon her arms, lifting her up on her toes to meet his eyes. "If God be God in truth, then He moves us where and when He wills. I am your man, my vow spoken before God. What trick is in that? You pledged your body and your life to me. Did you lie when you spoke that holy vow?"

"I did not lie, but you knew I did not want this. You heard me speak against it before I even knew of you."

"Yet you made your choice. I heard that as well. When did I become Lucifer in your eyes, Elsbeth? How have I deceived you?"

"You deceive me with every soft word. With every flirtation. With every look."

"How that you see my wooing as deceiving? How that you cannot see I want only to win you?"

"Win me? By your very words, I am already won. Am I not yours? Am I not bound to you until death? Will it take my death to free me?" she said, wrenching her arms free and dropping hard upon her heels.

He took a heavy breath and ran a hand through his hair. She did not look at his hair. She looked at his manhood, pulsing in her direction, seeming to seek her out. She backed up a step.

"Elsbeth," he said softy, letting his anger run out of him like wine from a pitcher. "Elsbeth, I understand your fears. I can do—"

"What do you think you know of me? I fear nothing, nothing you can name," she said harshly.

"Aye, wife, I know what you fear."

"You hardly know me," she said stiffly.

"Yet I do know you," he softly argued. "I cannot fight God for you. If He will have you, then you must go to Him. Yet is it not mercy to fly to the Father of us all? Eternity awaits. Paradise. 'Tis no thing to fear."

Elsbeth looked at him, her mouth agape, and then she began to laugh. A small and quiet laugh it was, barely heard, mostly a sharp exhalation of breath. He spoke the truth, in part, and it would serve her well. She did not want him in her and she had no yearning for motherhood; too often it was the path to death, and she had no wish to die. If he thought fear lay behind her determination not to be a wife, then it would serve. He might release her, if his heart could be softened to it.

He stared at her, his member shrinking at her laughter. She laughed the harder, watching him go soft and small. She could not remember such joy as watching the look of bewilderment grow on his face. 'Twas easily the sweetest moment of her marriage.

"You are full of wise counsel, are you not, my lord?" she said when she could speak again.

"Your laughter is unseemly. I only sought to comfort you," he said stiffly.

"My laughter is unseemly? Odd to hear you say that when you have been trying to win a smile from me since the moment of our meeting. I would think you would be much pleased that you have been the cause for such merriment in me."

"Elsbeth," he said with barely concealed anger.

"Oh, be not angry, my lord," she said. "I understand you well enough. You wanted me to laugh
with
you, not at you."

He pulled himself up to his full height, towering over the entire chamber. Even the fire seemed smaller and more subdued when faced with the specter of Hugh of Jerusalem in the full force of his anger.

"If you think that by pricking my anger, you will escape being pricked my me, you have no knowledge of me."

She laughed on a sharp note. "Oh, I know enough to know that when a man's prick rises, he can do naught else but follow."

Hugh raised his brows in surprise at her choice of words. She had some small measure of joy in shocking him.

"If you want our coupling to be tainted by anger and hard words, keep on, little wife. No matter what you say, I will pierce you, be it in smiles or frowns."

"Or beating fists?"

"I would not beat you."

"But I may beat you," she said. "Could you fault me? I am only trying to save my life, according to your wisdom."

Hugh took a calming breath and turned to walk back to the fire. He had a fine form even from the rear, his muscles marching in precision from his legs to his buttocks and up to his very shoulders. He had led a harder life in Outremer than she had supposed, to be so well hewn.

His face to the fire, he said, "I want only to help you, yet I find I cannot do what needs to be done to ease your fears. It is all in God's hands and none of mine." He turned to face her, his green eyes intense. "But, Elsbeth, if I had it in my power, I would take this fear from you onto myself."

"Would you?" she said, unwillingly moved by his obvious sincerity.

"Yea, little wife, I would," he said.

"Well, that is something," she said. "It is not enough, but it is something."

"Not enough?" he said, rubbed raw by her refusal to be comforted.

"Nay," she said, sitting on the stool near the fire and shaking her head softly, suddenly exhausted. "It is not enough. You have not the words to soothe me. I am beyond such comforting, my lord. It is no mark against you. I am simply beyond your reach."

"Elsbeth," he said, crouching down before her, taking her hands in his, "you must trust God with your life. What else can a man do?"

"What else can a man do?" she repeated softly. "A man can fight and die fighting. But what is left for a woman to do? A woman can die on her back and bleed out her life without a weapon to aid her, death coming for her by inches."

"To die is to die, little wife. What matters the weapon in your hand when death comes for you?"

"What matters? It matters much to me. Tell me, my lord, is your mother alive?"

"Nay," he said reluctantly.

"And how did she die?"

"What matters—"

"How?"

"In childbed," he said. "But she had borne six children before her time."

"So, six children and her life is spent, and it was worth the spending because she left six behind her? Do you tell me that you have five brethren?"

"Nay, only two," he said. "Two sisters are still living."

"Hmmm," she said, nodding. "Would you give them up in childbed as willingly as you have given your mother?"